The Christmas List
by cafpowcorgi
Summary: Each Christmas Tony adds another item to his "I Will" list. Post-11x02 Tiva One-shot.


**A/N: This story starts off in the present and then jumps between the present and flashbacks. Hopefully it's not _too_ hard to follow. Enjoy!**

The streets in Alexandria were nearly deserted, save for the occasional car making its way slowly through the slush, headlights obscured by swirls of fine white snow. Snowflakes had been falling gently for the past twenty minutes, but now the wind was picking up, causing Tony to tug fruitlessly at the zipper of his jacket. It was already as far up as it would go, and not even the thick green turtleneck and the light scruff he was sporting could keep goosebumps from spreading across the back of his neck. Shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, he forced himself to slow his pace. After all, he was taking this walk to clear his head, not to reach any particular destination.

It was ten after eight on Christmas Eve, though Tony would hardly have known it from the houses he passed. Most were dark, a few had small wreathes or Christmas trees, and only a handful were adorned with Christmas lights. Maybe it was a sign of hard economic times, or maybe everyone was gone visiting their families. Maybe he had wandered into a Jewish neighborhood without realizing it. The corners of his mouth twitched upward briefly at the thought. 

* * *

It had been two years, two months and 23 days since the Day. He had spent the first Christmas Eve with Abby, though he was pretty sure that Gibbs was the one ultimately responsible for the quirky forensic scientist practically beating down his apartment door. She had held up a 12-pack with a knowing smile and together they had marathoned through as many classic Christmas movies as Tony could produce, until at last they fell asleep next to one another, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn between, both sharing the same big gray blanket. Looking back, he would always remember it as the night that Abby Sciuto became not just a friend, but a sister.

He had spent the next day—Christmas Day—with Gibbs, out at the cabin. They split firewood, drank whiskey and said few words, until eventually they both gave up and headed in to work. After all, there were always reports to file. That night he had pulled out his "I Will" list—still blank from his flight home—and in large, bold letters scrawled: 1. Make a home for us.

It wasn't until June, however, that he found the perfect house: a cozy little 3-bedroom bungalow tucked away in the northern Virginia woods. Next to the house sat a large detached garage, where Tony spent much of his time engrossed in his new hobby: restoring a classic 1965 green Mustang convertible. He figured that if Gibbs had his boats then he could have his cars, and if someday by some strange, awful fortune poor McGee found himself separated from the love of his life, he could build airplanes or collect model trains or something.

He had done his best to decorate the house, and while it certainly lacked a woman's touch, the few visitors that stopped by would admit that he really had done a pretty nice job (and that maybe he wasn't a complete screw-up after all). There was a fireplace in the living room, as well as a small upright piano pushed against one wall. He had tried to favor soft, cheerful paint colors and thin curtains that let in plenty of sunshine. He reasoned that if Ziva had set out to banish the darkness, well, then he would give her a home full of light. On top of the piano sat a framed photograph: his favorite from Paris. Hung carefully around one corner of the photo was Ziva's Star of David necklace. If he was truly honest with himself, he would admit that most days, that simple piece of gold jewelry was the only thing left in the world that gave him the tiniest shred of hope. He never left home without looking at it. 

* * *

The cold wind was beginning to nip painfully at Tony's ears, so much so that it was with great relief that he stumbled upon the doorstep of a little synagogue. He tugged hopefully at the door handle and stepped into a dark foyer, lit only by a small emergency light. Taking pains to be as quiet as possible, he pressed through a pair of thick wooden doors into the empty sanctuary, which was lit dimly at the far end and contained around twenty small wooden benches. Taking a seat in back row, he leaned foreward, resting his head on the pew in front of him. He closed his eyes.

He had never been a man of prayer, so instead he chose to focus on his last memories of her. It wasn't hard; in fact, it was as if her face had been etched into the back of his eyelids. The way she had smiled at him as he backed away, the softness of her hair between his fingers, the salty tears that had slid between their lips. Suddenly he was filled with warmth, from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his toes to the centers of his frozen earlobes. Leaning back, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it carefully. His "I Will" list had grown a bit since that first Christmas without her. It now had three items, the last of which read: 3. Never give up.

Splotches of wetness began to spread across the page as he remembered the list they had written together. Her list. He wondered how far she had gotten. God, he didn't even know whether or not she was still alive. Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he returned the list to his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. It was time. 

* * *

The second Christmas Eve, the east coast was slammed with such a terrible blizzard that all the flights at Dulles and Reagan had been grounded. As a result, the whole team wound up at Ducky's, including Jimmy and Breena (who had originally planned to spend Christmas with Breena's family). The first thing they did was exchange Secret Santa gifts—something they hadn't had time to do in the midst of the past week's crazy case load. Tony had drawn McGee's name and had found him the perfect gift: a remote-controlled quadrocopter that could be flown using an app on his smartphone (_thanks Skymall_). Evidentally Ducky had drawn his name, because he received a beautiful set of Ian Flemings's original James Bond novels (_Give reading a try, Tony. Trust me, you'll love them!_).

When it became clear that poor Agent Bishop had wound up with Gibbs, Tony couldn't stop the jokes from flying past his lips. Maybe it was the eggnog he was sipping or maybe it was just the spirit of the holidays, but suddenly he felt more like himself than he had in a very, very long time. Unfortunately the feeling wasn't destined to last. After everyone had had their fill of turkey and wine and cherry pie and had begun to sing their way through Ducky's _Oxford Book of Christmas Carols_, he began to feel the melancholy settle in once more. Feigning exhaustion, he excused himself and headed home, snaking his way through the back roads (since most of the major highways were closed).

He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so instead he sat down at the piano in the dark and let his fingers make up melodies. After a time he realized that he had been playing the same notes over and over; it was a song for her, one that he couldn't stop playing even if it meant that he had gone completely mad. But he wasn't mad—not really. Dancing on the edges of madness, perhaps, but right now he was still just a man in love. It took three sudden, sharp knocks at his front door to shake him back to reality. He glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece: 11:46 p.m. Instinctively he reached for his gun. 

* * *

He double—no, triple-checked the number he had entered. Even though he knew it by heart, he had to get it right the first time. Her voice was the only voice he wanted to hear. Trembling, he pressed the call button and held the phone up to his ear. One ring. Two, three, four, five...and then voicemail. A generic robot voice invited him to leave a message after the tone. He paused.

"Hey. It's me. Um...I know I said I'd only call this number if there was an emergency...honestly, I don't even know if this number belongs to you anymore. Hell," he let out an empty chuckle, "I don't even know if you're still..." He trailed off. "Look, I'm sorry, it's just...it's been two years, and it's Christmas Eve, and I..." Another robot voice broke in to warn him that he only had 8 seconds left. "I miss you, Ziva." The message saved before he could say any more. He sniffed, slipped the cell phone back into his pocket, and turned to exit the temple. "Please just come home," he whispered under his breath. _Come home to me, Ziva._

* * *

Gun in hand, Tony slowly cracked open his front door.

"For God's sake, Junior, I'm freezing my ass off out here."

"Dad?" He swung the door open. "How...what are you doing here?"

Senior pushed past him, pausing at the entryway to stomp the snow off his feet. "And Merry Christmas to you too!"

"Seriously Dad, the airports are shut down and half the highways are closed."

Senior shrugged. "I know a guy."

"_Dad_."

"Alright, alright. I flew into Philly. Took the bus."

"That's nearly a three-hour bus—"

"I thought you could use some company, ok? You got a real bed in this house somewhere?"

Tony felt a wave of shame wash over him. He hadn't been particularly kind to Senior the last time he had dropped by for Christmas. He thought briefly of Ziva and how she had argued with Eli before he died. She would want him to do better.

"Uh...yeah. Yeah of course. In fact, I have a real big boy guest room now, so you can stay as long as you want. Where's your suitcase? Can I get you a beer? It's good to see you, Dad." And just like that, it all came spilling out.

Senior laughed. "Suitcase's on the step. And I'd _love_ a beer."

It wasn't long before father and son were settled in front of the fire, drinks in hand, mesmerized by the flames. When at last Senior cleared his throat to speak, Tony knew exactly what was coming.

"How are you doing, son?"

He smiled (a classic DiNozzo defense mechanism). "Oh you know, there's good days and bad days," he said truthfully.

Senior chuckled. "Come on, Tony. Talk to me! You know I know what you're going through."

Tony nodded slowly. Images of his mother flooded his mind... pressed against his tear ducts...tightened around his vocal cords. "Do you think..." he started, biting his lip. "Do you think she's coming back?"

"Of course she's coming back."

"Mom didn't."

It took a moment for his father to process the meaning behind his statement."You think something happened to Ziva?"

"I don't know, it's just...shouldn't she be back by now? Why haven't we heard a single peep from her? Not a text, not a phone call, not a letter...it's been a year, Dad." He stared at his now-empty beer bottle, rotating it slowly with his fingers.

"Have a little faith, Tony. You love her, don't you?"

Tony looked up. He wasn't expecting that question. But of course there was only one honest answer. He nodded.

"Well? How long are you willing to wait, then?"

Tony leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Since when did you become Dr. Phil?"

"I just want to make sure you're alright. Are you alright?"

"I'm _fine_, Dad." And then, "Hey. Wanna watch a movie?"

"Only if it's _It's a Wonderful Life_."

"You got it." Tony smiled. _Old traditions die hard_, he thought.

Later, after Senior had gone to bed, Tony pulled open his sock drawer and fished around for a certain small, folded piece of paper: his "I Will" list. Underneath "Make a home for us" he wrote: 2. Wait for her. 

* * *

And now here he was, trudging alone through the snow on the third Christmas Eve since that Day. As he watched each one of his breaths curl away from him in icy wisps, he thought about how much his life had changed over the past two years. He had moved forward, bought a house, welcomed a new team member, and even taken over a few cases now and then as team leader. And he enjoyed his life, he really did. But in many ways, he was still the same old Tony—the Tony that made up McNicknames and called Bishop "Probie" and was a force to be reckoned with, from the field to the interrogation room. The Tony that had spent the previous 8 years of his life joined at the hip to a certain feisty Israeli, putting his life on the line for her nearly every single day. And he would have died for her in a heartbeat. He knew she knew that.

Earlier in the month, Bishop had offered to help him decorate for Christmas (like McGee, Ellie Bishop was addressed by her last name more often than not...when she wasn't referred to as Probie, that is). When he politely declined, her next words took him completely off guard. "C'mon. What if this is the year?" He had scarcely said a word to her about Ziva, but she just _knew_. How did women _do_ that?

They set up a Christmas tree in his living room, and he insisted on buying a menorah as well, which he placed in the big bay window that faced the front yard. She teased him about being religiously confused and he replied that it was simply a reminder of a past life. Glancing around the room, she had lingered over the framed photograph on the piano. Slowly she traced the gold necklace with her finger, turning when she felt Tony's eyes watching her from across the room.

"Ellie," he said gently.

"I'm so sorry, Tony."

"Don't be."

"Look, don't give up on her, ok? She'll be back. Do you ever get a really strong feeling about something, like in your gut?"

He had smiled at that moment, because he hadn't even thought about consulting his gut. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he felt it too.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do." And that is how the third item on Tony's "I Will" list became "Never give up." 

* * *

By the time he reached his car—a black, nondescript Toyota Avalon that he used for everyday driving—he was thinking seriously about swinging by the liquor store. Drinking alone on Christmas Eve felt like a very Gibbsonian thing to do, however, so he decided against it. He wasn't Gibbs, nor did he wish to be. Instead, he switched the radio to some nauseatingly cheerful Christmas music and started for home.

It was when he was about a block from his house that he nearly had a stroke. Through the thick patches of trees he could swear he saw a brief flicker of light from the living room. He hadn't left any lights on. He _never_ left lights on. As he skidded into the driveway his suspicions were confirmed: nine little candles shown bright from the big bay window. He didn't bother pulling his car into the garage (hell, he was lucky he remembered to put it in "park"). Leaping into the snow, he scrambled up the walkway and burst through the front door.

"ZIVA!" he shouted. His eyes strained to see in the darkness.

"Tony." He spun to his right just as she stepped into the mix of candle and moonlight. God, she was just as beautiful as ever. She wore a dark red v-neck sweater with her hair down, allowing her abundance of soft brown curls to frame her face. She held up her cell phone, a silent acknowledgement of the message he had left earlier. "I miss you too," she said softly.

To this day he can't remember who took the first step. All he remembers is that it wasn't like he thought it would be. He figured he would pull her into a passionate, cinematic reunion kiss, just like any classic romance he had ever seen. Instead, she threw her arms around his neck and he drew her into a massive bear hug: big and warm and secure (and a little fuzzy, too, thanks to his beard). Together they stood, bodies trembling, for who knows how long. When at last he relaxed his grip, he took a slow step back and blurted the first question that came to his mind.

"How did you find me?" he asked, using his thumb to wipe a tear from her cheek.

She paused uncertainly. "Gibbs...gave me your address."

"You saw Gibbs? When? Today?"

"Three days ago."

Wham. He felt like he'd been hit in the head with a hammer. "You've been in DC for three days? Why didn't you..." he trailed off, making no attempts to conceal the hurt in his expression.

"I could not bear to see you until I could give you this." She pulled a small white envelope from her back pocket. "Merry Christmas, Tony."

Tony eyed her suspiciously as he tore open the envelope and tilted it toward his open palm. Out slid a gold, rectangular metal name tag with "Ziva" engraved in large lettering. In response to his quizzical expression, she motioned for him to flip it over. He could just make out the tiny word engraved in the lower right hand corner. It said "Alice's."

"That is my new badge," she said with a sideways smile.

"_Alice's_," Tony repeated to himself, trying to remember where he'd heard that name before. "Alice's...as in Alice's—"

"Corner Cafe," she finished.

"Isn't that just a few blocks from—"

"NCIS." God, she had missed finishing all of his sentences.

"I will be waitressing there three days a week," she said. "It is not..._bagging groceries_...but it is something."

Tony's face relaxed into a grin. He took her hands in his; they were softer than he remembered. "Where have you been staying? A hotel? C'mon, let's go get your stuff."

"That...will not be necessary," she said carefully. (Was it just him, or did she seem nervous?) "I checked out of the Marriott this afternoon."

"I don't understand."

"I hope you do not mind..." Her eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway. "I took the top two drawers."

A few ragged breaths escaped from Tony's lips: a prelude to the deluge of tears that would soon be streaking down his cheeks. Cupping her face with his hands, he pressed his lips to hers-tenderly at first and then firmly, decidedly. "You waited for me," she whispered when he pulled back.

"I love you Ziva."

She leaned forward and kissed him again, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "And I love you."

Later, when they had become _properly_ reacquainted (several times, in fact), he had reached under his pillow for the small black box. "Will you marry me?" he whispered into her ear.

"Yes." Her eyes sparkled.

"Yes?" he repeated (just to make sure).

"Yes!" she laughed as he planted kisses all over her neck and chest. When he finally settled back into his pillow, she shook her head.

"Who would have thought," she said. "Tony DiNozzo finally tying the clot."

A familiar bemused expression spread across his face. "Knot," he corrected.

"Not what?"

"Knot. The word you're looking for is knot. Tie the knot."

"Oh _whatever_," she laughed, right before clobbering him in the head with her pillow.


End file.
